


A Tale of Star-crossed Love

by JustAnotherFangirl_aka_lumine



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29826264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAnotherFangirl_aka_lumine/pseuds/JustAnotherFangirl_aka_lumine
Summary: Basically a Tristan and Isolt remix of "The children of Hurin".
Relationships: Beleg Cúthalion/Túrin Turambar
Kudos: 1





	A Tale of Star-crossed Love

Long, long ago, in a land known as Dor-Lomin, a son was born to Hurin Thalion, who was lord of those lands. He was a good man, beloved and strong, but also followed by an unlucky fate. Young Turin was born during a time in which a plague swept through the lands, having already taken his older sister barely three summers into her life. Full of worry that they could loose another child, Hurin and his beloved wife Morwen bore the babe before the fabled seer of Dor-Lomin, who was also skilled in the art of magic, and asked, fearfully, whether he would live. The wizened old man studied the child´s tiny face for a long, long time while Hurin and Morwen held their breath in trepidation and young Turin gurgled happily in his mother´s arms. The seer then stood, after what felt like an eternity, and announced that yes, the boy would live, would even grow up to be a hero, tenfold would he inherit his father´s gifts of strength, duty and valour, but tenfold would also be his unlucky fate. He would love like no man had ever loved before him, but he would also be responsible for the demise of the one that his love fell upon. Yes, he would live, blessed and cursed both. 

The unlucky fate that had been predicted for Turin did not wait long to show itself. Barely a year had passed since the boy´s birth, when Hurin Thalion, along with his brother, was called to battle, and they suffered a terrible defeat. Glaurung the Golden, fiercest of beasts at that time, lead the armies of evil, and Hurin was captured and executed after long, terrible torture, while his brother Huor fell in battle. When Morwen heard the news, she lost all will to live, and having just borne another daughter, she died within days of receiving those terrible tidings, and the newborn Nienor followed swiftly afterwards. 

So Turin grew up alone, a servant in his own house which now belonged to Morolt, prince of the Easterlings and new Lord of Dor-Lomin. Morolt demanded that Turin himself serve him his meals and sing for him while he ate. The boy´s voice surpassed any nightingale´s in beauty and despite himself, Morolt grew fond enough of him to give him a proper education. Fifteen summers came and went, and Turin started to grow from boy to man. His people adored him, and his strength in battle soon surpassed that of any who sparred with him. Come winter, Morolt grew afraid of the boy, fearing he could overthrow him and claim what was rightfully his. So he called Turin to him one cold morning: “You know that I have been alone for long, and I wish to marry. Bring back a bride for me, with silver hair and star-spangled eyes, with skin like snow and lips as soft and red as a roses´ petals. If you return without such a maid, I will kill you and slaughter your people.” 

Turin well knew that such a feat was impossible, but he still went, not for his own gain, but to protect those who had followed his father before him. He looked far and wide, and could not find a maiden that fit Morolt´s description. It was deep into the winter, when Turin decided he could not go back. He would hide from Morolt, and his people would live. He left the party of loyal soldiers that were with him, and ordered them to say they were attacked and that he was dead. Teary-eyed did they part. But Morolt was not satisfied with that answer, and he commanded the seer, under threat of death, to put a spell around the territory of Dor-Lomin, making it so that Turin would be unable to find it. With tears in his eyes, the old man did so, and to spare Turin more pain, he willed that henceforth the young man should have no memory of who he was and were he came from, bar his own name. 

Turin had wandered through the wild for more than three days without being able to find food or drink. Bereft of all strength, he finally sank into the snow, loosing consciousness. He might have never woken up again, had not sharp eyes spotted him. Strong, gentle hands came and carried him away.

His head felt foggy and clogged, when he finally regained his senses. He seemed to lie on some kind of stretcher, and he felt the world around him shifting and moving. It took a while before he realized he was being carried, but he could not see who those people were. But one of them seemed to have noticed that he was awake from his feeble movement, and informed him that he was now brought before the King. 

Already did they approach the throne, and Turin was hauled of the stretcher and held upright by guards, for the world was shifting and moving around him, his legs refusing to carry him. The King looked regal and stern on his seat, and lovely was the woman by his side, but Turin did not have a glance to spare for them. He found himself unable to tear his gaze away from the man that stood to their right. He had never seen such beauty or grace before. This man had hair like woven silver and skin like snow and Turin thought he might die if he did not get to run his fingers through the strands and feel this skin´s porcelain softness against his. He felt as if his heart in his chest was alive, fluttering like a bird, desperate to escape. The young man did not even notice his cheeks were flushed red. He had forgotten everything around him. All he wanted was a smile to touch those rose-red lips and light up those eyes that made the night skin hide in shame at how mediocre it was. Nothing else seemed important any more. And so he raised his head and sang, like he had never sang before, a song that seem to come to him as the tune left his lips. It was as if something in his life had been missing until now, something he had gained the moment he set eyes on this unearthly beauty, a beauty that could not be human. It was in that moment that he realized that those were elves, that he had trespassed into the kingdom of Doriath, ruled by the legendary King Thingol and Queen Melian. 

Beleg stood beside his uncle as his men brought in the man they had found by the borders, half-frozen and unconscious. He was carried towards them, ice still in his cropped dark hair, and it felt as if a bolt of lightning had struck Beleg´s age-old heart. Despite his youthful appearance, he was strong, and it seemed like Beleg´s body was roused from a deep, long slumber. He grew hot as he thought of this finely built body before him and of what those strong hands could do. He thought he would die to hear this handsome man laugh just once while he spent his life watching the lines on this face deepen and then fade to nothing after he was gone. From one moment to another, Beleg´s immortal life did not hold meaning any more. Beleg had grown up around the eternal beauty of the Eldar and had never seen a man before, but if he was to choose what was more beautiful, more special, more precious, he would choose the man before him any time. This beauty went so much deeper than that of the Eldar, so much more raw with it´s imperfections, constantly changing, and still so incredibly fragile despite the strength and valour he could see. Music was not new to him either, but when the boy started singing, the melody touched something deep in his soul. This was so much more passionate and longing than anything his kind ever made, and Beleg could not help to wish that this song was for him.

When the young man had ended, tears ran down Beleg´s cheeks and it cost all of his willpower to not run to the man´s side, for the urge to be near him seemed to grow stronger with every passing heartbeat, and worry took over his heart, for he could see that he was not well, his eyes wide and glazed over with fever. 

He seemed like waking from a dream when Thingol, his uncle and king, finally spoke. Beleg could tell that he, too, was holding back tears, deeply moves by the man´s singing. “Tell us now your name, stranger, and where you come from. Whatever your crime may be, I assure you that you shall be forgiven.” “Turin is my name.” But he said nothing more. “But where do you come from? Tell us, who are the people that brought you to life?” Silence. Finally, Turin shook his head. 

He gave his best to try and remember, but he could not. He did not know. Only the name Turin had stayed with him, everything else was clad in darkness, and as hard he may try, he could not grasp it. He had forgotten everything that had happened to him before. And so, he shook his head after a long time of silence. “I cannot tell you, your Majesty, for I do not know. My name is Turin, that much I know is true. I beg your forgiveness that I cannot tell you more, for there is nothing more I remember.” He then bowed his head and awaited the king´s judgement, who now rose from his throne. “Your song has moved us deeply, and if you wish, you may stay here, as I see you have nowhere else to go.” Turin could not answer, as the world blurred before his eyes, darkness claiming him.

When he finally woke again, he could barely move. His whole body felt too hot and too heavy, and his mind was clouded with a white fog. Where was he? The last he remembered were beautiful star-spangled eyes, widening in terror. Had he dreamt? Was he back home? But where was home? He could not make out his surroundings clearly. Had he not been brought before a king? He tried to sit up, but found he could not. His strength did not suffice. Only then did a face appear above him, a face of unearthly grace, framed by long silver strands. He tried to reach for them, wondering groggily if they felt as soft as they looked, but he could not lift his arm. Was this what legends called a Maia? A spirit from the lands beyond the sea? Because only such a being could be so enchanting. A cool cloth was placed on his forehead and soft words were murmured to him in a language he did not understand, but they soothed him anyway. With a quiet sigh, he fell asleep, feeling safe and well cared for. 

Beleg could not help but place a gentle kiss to the unconscious man´s brow. He looked so young and fragile, laying there. He remembered his own terror when he had sunk to his knees in front of them, and how he had rushed to his side, sobbing as he felt the burning heat underneath his hands. Nothing could calm his frantic worry. But thankfully, his uncle´s dear wife, Queen Melian, saw many things, and she allowed him to bring Turin to his home and care for him there. She did not ask after the strange behaviour that Beleg himself could not grasp nor explain. He hoped with all his might that Turin would recover soon, that he could hear his song once more. His heart seemed to break at the thought of loosing him. He did not know how and why, but he could not help it, either. 

Turin grew well soon, strong and courageous once more. As he did not know what else to do, he stayed in the lands of Thingol and Melian. He and Beleg grew close, though unaware of what had been planted in their hearts. And as Turin wished to make himself useful to the people who had so graciously accepted him into their midst, he soon took up guard duties with Beleg and his men. He often sang for his companions by the fire, but first and foremost, he sang for Beleg, to see the sparkle the music would bring to his eyes, and before long, all his melodies were written with his Elven friend in mind. But the fire in his heart burned ever hotter, ever stronger, and before long, he thought he would die if he could not kiss or touch Beleg. He was burning for Beleg´s skin on his, and before the year ended, he knew he loved him, and would never set his eyes on another. Often he woke in the night, shuddering and lovelorn, having dreamt of Beleg. But he still kept that love to himself, fearing that it could never be, unaware that Beleg was feeling much the same. 

The winter came and went, and the Elves prepared to celebrate the arrival of spring once more. And after night upon night out on watch, being allowed to huddle close to Beleg for warmth, Turin could not go back to how things were. The thought of Beleg being there so close to him, yet never close enough was a thought Turin could not bear. His need for Beleg, his ache to be near him was growing ever more suffocating, the only relief either acting upon it or passing from the world. 

In the evening after the celebration, they returned to their post alone, sitting by the fire, only them and the whispering flames. A strand of Beleg´s hair had fallen into his face and with his heart pounding like a roaring drum, Turin took heart and brushed it back. Their eyes locked, and Turin felt like drowning in Beleg´s eyes, before his glance strayed to his lips. Before he could stop himself, he took Beleg´s hand in his and gently placed his lips upon those of his friend. He froze in horror, fearing he had spoilt it all. But Beleg kissed him back, and oh, he could not breathe, could not think, the whole world seemed to disappear around them. They could not let go of each other, there was nothing that mattered any more but their lips and hands. And in between their frantic kisses and caresses, Turin whispered his confession to Beleg´s lips, telling him just how much he loved him, that he could not bear to be without him any longer. Beleg drew back, his eyes alight with delight and passion, telling him that neither could he live without Turin, asking him if he would be willing to go to his uncle come morning, to ask for them to be joined as one. Turin wept with joy, and the night could not pass quick enough. 

Thingol and Melian saw the love shining in both their eyes, and did not oppose them. Melian, however, saw many things, for she was a Maia, and even tough she could not give the memory of Turin´s past back to him, she still knew his fate. So she took Turin aside, warning him. She spoke to him of the prophecy that was looming over him, that he was foretold to be the cause of Beleg´s early demise. Turin grew sad and silent at this, for he could not bear to be parted from Beleg, and thought of whether or not he should heed Melian´s advice. He came home to his love in silence, and laid down next to the already sleeping Elf. In the night, however, he received a vision of terror and warning. He saw himself, striking Beleg down with his own sword, unable to stop it. His body would not obey him. The steel Turin´s blade was bathed in blood and the look of Beleg´s eyes seemed to tear Turin apart, as the love of his life breathed his last. Only then was Turin able to move, and sobbing, he fell to his knees, clutching the cooling body until his hands and tunic were drenched in blood, too. He then awoke, shuddering and weeping. Beleg drew him into his arms and Turin broke, telling him everything, voicing his desire to leave Doriath to spare Beleg. His love wept with him, imploring him to ignore it, to not leave him. Turin however could not stand for that, and as much as his heart broke at the thought of leaving his love behind, he could not bear the thought of doing harm to Beleg. He tried to memorize his love as well as he could, to have at least one comfort for the years that were to come, for they both knew they could never see each other ever again. Awash in grief and passion, Beleg begged Turin to claim him, to be with him just once, to love him, to let him feel him, before they parted. Weeping, Turin obliged, letting them both taste heaven just once, aching at the knowledge that it was never to be again. They both allowed themselves to drown in one another, forging a bond never to be broken. 

Dawn was upon them all too soon, and the hour of parting drew closer and closer, as much as they wished to stop it. Weeping, they shared one last, desperate kiss in front of Beleg´s house, before Turin turned to go, but Beleg stopped him. He drew his own sword from it´s sheath, the blade as black as shadow itself, his famous sword Anglachrel, forged by Eol, his long forgotten kinsman. “Take this as my parting gift. Black is it like the depth of my grief. May it be a sign of my love for you, and protect you where ever you go.” With gentle hands, Turin took the blade, kissing Beleg once more, whispering his thanks. Then he walked away. Leaving Beleg felt like ripping his own heart from his chest. Just the thought that it was the only way to protect his love stopped him from running back to him. As he reached the forest clearing, he turned to take in one last look upon the one he loved more than life, before he disappeared between the trees. 

Turin left Doriath, heartbroken, bereft. He endlessly wandered the wild, singing of his despair and a love that could never be. All who heard him were moved to tears, opening their doors for him. Turin accepted their kindness, though he cared not for live any more. Years passed, and Turin even sought a glorious death in battle, but he lived, ever tortured by his love for Beleg that would never be fulfilled again. 

It was one cold, rainy night, when he stumbled upon a door in the mountainside. He knocked, but no one answered. And so he sang, sang of his love, until the door opened and an old man peered out. He was only the height of Turin´s waist, and the man realized that he must be of the stunted folk. Tears streaked his face and only with a gesture of his hand, he beckoned Turin to follow him. He let the man sit in front of the fire and gave him food and drink. He then said that he swore an oath to only house someone whose grief was matching his own. Turin was soft-hearted, and so he asked after the man´s name and his reason to grieve. He answered that he was Mim, the petty dwarf, whose folk had been slain long ago, until only he and his two sons remained. But they had been killed by a dragon, and he was old and frail and did not even have the strength to avenge them. Turin was moved and swore that he would help Mim achieve justice for them. That softened the old dwarf, and he called out that Turin should receive his just reward for such a noble feat. “I do not have much.”, he spoke, “but you shall be rewarded. If the Maker still is just, you and your love shall be reunited, in death if not in life.” The old man´s compassion comforted Turin greatly, and come morning, he prepared a trap for the beast. He knew from Mim that it would crawl back to his hoard in the morning, and it had to cross a narrow canyon on the way. In that canyon Turin hid, and soon, he heard the dragon approach. It was gigantic, a long, slithering body with golden scales, with four sturdy legs. As it crawled over the canyon however, Turin rammed his sword into its belly. A loud roar of pain seemed to shake the land, and it writhed and wound as it died. Little did Turin know that it was Glaurung, the beast that was responsible for his father´s death. The man stood and looked down on the dying dragon, and it smiled, full of mockery. “Well done, Turin, son of Hurin. You avenged your father and those young dwarves, I reckon. But let me tell you one thing: My death comes with a price. Whoever slays me will have to marry the daughter of Nargothrond´s king. Oh, how Beleg Cuthalion will weep, if he learns you are unfaithful!” Turin then was awash with fury, and so he cut out the dragon´s tongue, which hissed in pain once more, before it drew his dying breath. 

Turin however decided to hide in the woods, for never would he betray his lost love like this, but the dragon´s blood was sprayed all over him, hot and poisonous. So terrible was it´s stench that Turin fell into a deathlike sleep. It happened that one of the king´s advisors, who also desired the beautiful princess, came down the path and saw that the dragon was dead. He saw Turin laying there unconscious, and thought that he must be the hero that slew the dragon. He found him unresponsive however, and took heart. He dragged him into the bushes, believing him dead, then cut off the dragons paws and rode to Nargothrond. 

Turin awoke in the forest, his head aching, but still aware of the dragon´s words. He saw that someone had cut off it´s paws, and he was content with it, for he only wanted to bring Mim a little comfort with his feat. It did not bother him in the slightest that someone else wanted to win the princess´ hand. And so he continued to wander and sing. Two guards however, who patrolled in the forest, heard his tune, and brought him into the city, before the King and his daughter, to entertain them while they celebrated the lucky man that slew the dragon and was to wed the princess. 

The feast was magnificent, and shiningly beautiful was Finduilas, the king´s daughter, but it did not move Turin, for nothing could ever compare to the radiance of Beleg´s smile and his heart ached when he thought of how long it had been since he had last seen it. And so he sang, and those were the words of his tune:

“Hear of Beleg Silver-hair,  
my dream in endless night.  
My light and love that cannot be  
Weaned from my weeping heart.

Hear of Beleg Golden-heart,  
who I will love until my end.  
I loved him too much and not enough  
That´s what my tiding is. 

I weaned myself from his loving breast,  
To risk no harm to him,  
But with every fibre my heart demands  
To just run back to him. 

Hear of Beleg Cuthalion.  
May he draw forth his bow!  
Let the arrow hit my breaking heart,  
I´ll die a happy man!”

Finduilas, however, looked upon him while he sang, and he seemed to her the most beautiful man she had ever seen, and her heart jumped in her chest. When he ended, she sank to her father´s feet, begging him to let her marry Turin instead. The king was bewildered at this, for she was promised to the hero that slew the dragon and only an hour ago, she had been happy that Gwindor was the one who did so. He asked Gwindor whether it was true that he had slain the dragon, and he swore it was so, bowing to the king, saying he only took the dragon´s paws as proof. Turin bowed to the king too, but in this moment, the dragon´s tongue fell from his vest. Turin could now no longer hide that he was the dragon-slayer. Finduilas was overjoyed, and the king told him to claim what was his.

Turin however told him that he could not do so, he had slain the dragon in revenge to quench a father´s tears, and his heart was already lost to someone else, that he would never betray his love to Beleg. Taking pity, he told Finduilas that she would be better off marrying Gwindor, who was of her own kind and loved her. Finduilas, however, thinking it could not be hard to win his love, declined, vowing she would wed no other. So Turin and Finduilas were married against his will. Gwindor left the city the very same night, never to return. 

Years passed, and Turin sang as he had always done, sad tunes about a love that he had lost and betrayed. And despite Finduilas begging him to sing joyous songs, for now he had no reason any more to grief for a love he had lost when now he had a wife in her, he continued. He wanted no one else, and he would never love anyone but Beleg, and he told her so. He busied himself with hunting the creatures of evil during the day, and at night, ever did he laid the black, cold blade of his sword down between them. Finduilas began to realize that Turin had meant what he had said, that she could have his hand, but not his heart, and she grew ever colder and more bitter as the days passed. 

It came one day that Turin was struck by an orc arrow and while he was brought back to safety and the wound did not seem deep or worrisome, it soon was found out to be poisoned. Turin grew weak and feverish, with no one being able to help him. One day, the healer was alone with him and Turin whispered to him his last wish: Send the fastest rider to Doriath, and send for Beleg Cuthalion. The healer, who knew that Beleg was well accomplished in this art, too, was glad, for maybe he knew a treatment that he himself had not heard about. Turin however said: “That is not the reason. I feel my life slipping away, and more than anything in the world, I wish to hold his hand and see him smile just once more.” The healer was deeply moved by this, and so he did as he was asked, despite what the princess had commanded. He turned to Turin´s bed, telling him that if the rider would come back alone and dressed in black, he had been send in vain. Were his clothes white, however, and he was followed by a second horse, then he would see his love again. Finduilas had pressed an ear to the door, hearing everything, and cold fury boiled in her. She remained by Turin´s bedside, however, and with every word he whispered of Beleg in his delusions, her anger grew. 

Beleg had lived on, and even tough nothing could fill the ache in his chest, he remained in Doriath. He longed for Turin with every fibre of his being and could not forget him, and every day, he prayed that there at least would be a message from him. Until one day, a messenger of Nargothrond, clad in black, appeared by the gate, calling to him: “I take it from your silver hair and broken-hearted eyes that you are Beleg Cuthalion! Turin Mormegil, the black sword, lays dying in Nargothrond, and he wishes to see you one last time. Make haste, for his life is leaving him!” Beleg´s heart hammered like a great drum, and he instantly went to get the fastest horse there was in Thingol´s stables. Maybe it was not too late yet, maybe he could save Turin, and finally be with him again. When he returned, the messenger had changed into white attire, and they sped off, towards Nargothrond, not awarding themselves even the smallest break. All that Beleg could think of was Turin. Stay awake, my love, he begged silently. Do not leave until I have not looked into your eyes again and kissed you at least once. Please do not leave me.

Turin´s life was slipping away. Only the thought of Beleg could keep him awake now. Finduilas was still by his side, but Turin did not care any more. Just another breath, until Beleg arrived. How sweet will death be in his arms! A guard entered the room, and Turin heard his voice through mist, as if he was calling from a great distance. “My lady, there is a rider approaching.” Hope sparked in Turin´s chest and he whispered, broken, feverish: “Black… or white? Is… Beleg...” Just one last kiss. I need to tell him how sorry I am. I have longed for so long, I beg you, let me die in his arms.

Finduilas looked down on her husband, and quiet, yet cold was her voice when she told him. “The rider is clad in black, and he comes alone.” Barely had the words left her mouth when she realized what she had done. Turin slumped back onto the bed, and with one last sigh of Beleg´s name, he was still. He was gone. 

Beleg jumped off his horse and ran through the corridors as fast as his legs would carry him, forgetting everything and everyone. Turin´s name was the rhythm of his breath and heart. Maybe it was not too late yet, just maybe they would have another chance. He reached the room the messenger had directed him to, but he was stopped by a tall, regal Elven woman. “Who are you, that you demand to see him?”, she asked coldly. Beleg threw back his hood. “I am the chief warden of Doriath, Beleg Cuthalion is my name. Turin Mormegil and I are one, wed under the laws of Doriath, and all my heart belongs to him.”

The woman staggered back as if hit by an arrow. Seemingly left by all strength, she sank into a nearby chair. Beleg however did not care, his only focus was the man on the bed. “Turin, my love.”, he whispered, cupping his face. He was too still, and there was no breath brushing against Beleg´s fingers. “I´m here now, my love, I beg you, wake up. Just wake up and look at me once more. Please...” It then struck him that it was too late. Turin was gone. Beleg started sobbing then, throwing his body over Turin´s as if to shield him from the world, showering his face with tears and kisses alike, begging him to wake up. He did not even notice, but he was alone with Turin when the night fell and still he was not letting go of the man´s cooling hand. And in his wordless grief, midnight came and went. With shaking hands, he pulled Anglachrel from it´s sheath. “Greetings, my friend, you, who has been my true companion in many battles. You have been by his side when I could not, he held onto your hilt in my hand´s stead. Be merciful, for I cannot live without him. I beg you, take me where my love has gone.” With those words, whispered in fevered madness, he impaled himself on the blade.

When the morning came, the servants came and saw that Beleg, too, was dead and Anglachrel was broken. King Orodreth had a coffin made for them, from white marble, and the Elves of Nargothrond placed them in it together, reunited in death. They carried them to a hill in Brethil, where they were buried underneath a great grey stone, carrying their names. And even tough all the lands around fell, and sank beneath the sea, the hill of their grave remained as an island. And they say that roses still sprout from their tomb, one bush of white and one of red, forever more intertwined. 

They say that Beleg was the only Elf, apart from his fabled cousin Luthien, who really died, leaving the halls of Mandos, to be reunited with Turin somewhere beyond the confines of this world.


End file.
